


To Bring You Back

by mjsswjtch



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjsswjtch/pseuds/mjsswjtch
Summary: 2 years after Sherlock's death, John is still around. He's going about his life, finally becoming happy again, when Sherlock spoils everything. He shows up and turns John's life upside down yet again, pulling him into the growing mystery of London's Butcher, a whole new category of serial killer. There's something special about this villain, and it's up to Sherlock and John to figure out what. But no one will be able to predict how this case will close.Disclaimer: I do NOT own the Sherlock franchise or any of the characters!Also, cover art credit to @euclase on DeviantArt!Chapters 2-4 are adapted from original Sherlock script, from http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html(Sherlock AU, follows the plot of S3E1, but without Mary. Sherlock returns because of a case, and John finds himself dragged into a growing pile of murder mysteries.)





	1. You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter (sort of) of a story that I've been planning for a while, but never got around to writing. It follows the plot of BBC Sherlock series 3, minus a few plot points and characters. It follows a Tumblr prompt, which I shall share at the end. You can also find this on Wattpad under my user, @mjsswjtch! Hope you enjoy!

_You smiled, satisfied, as you sharpened the knives and then carefully laid them out in their places, gently sliding some back into the knife block, with only a soft noise to indicate the movement. The work space was still bloodstained from last week; the activity had been a huge success. If it were any other cutting board, you would bleach it, but you knew the chemicals would damage the wood. The cutting board really was beautiful, a consolation gift from an old friend after... you shook your head, shying away from that particular train of thought. After finishing with the knives, you grabbed a damp rag, wiping the cutting board yet again. One can never be too clean._

_You looked around, realising you needed to organise the Kitchen again. The Kitchen was what you had lovingly named your little hideout, your safe place away from all the journalists and paparazzi still trying to milk every possible story and tidbit about Sherlock's demise, even two years later. It was away from Baker Street, something that a friend had organised in an old warehouse. You hadn't really meant to get into cooking, but it helped when you were upset. You’ve started experimenting with all sorts of styles and cuisines, and gotten quite good, often inviting friends around for tea, or to try out a new recipe._

_You frowned at the thought of him, scrubbing absently at every available surface as you walked around the room. It didn't bear thinking about, Sherlock's death. It seemed that everyday a new detail popped up, proving over and over that Sherlock was gone, whatever Russian rumor was floating around. But you still stood by your original beliefs: Sherlock had lied to you, and he was really that smart. He couldn't be dead. Anderson had only fueled that flame of hope, encouraging any and all theories on how Sherlock could have survived. He even started that stupid fan club... what was it called again? The Empty Hearse. Idiotic. Sherlock would have agreed. That wasn't how to lure Sherlock back. He had to have a reason. You knew you wouldn’t be enough incentive, so you had to find another way._

_You smiled again, looking around the now-clean Kitchen, ready to start the next project. Prepping, the building anticipation, was one of the best parts of your new pastime._


	2. Back to Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters are based off of the actual Sherlock script for series 3, episode 1! The script can be found here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html
> 
> What I essentially did was copy the script into a document, and then make it pretty and easy to read. These chapters set the scene for my story, and give us the background. Enjoy!

It was night in Serbia, and there was a man with long curly hair running desperately through the forest. Above him, the helicopter was circling around, shining a searchlight into the close, dark shapes of trees while the pilots carefully watched their infrared camera, waiting for glimpses of the man and, when they saw him, radioing instructions in Serbian to the armed ground crew. There was much shouting and running and chasing the man through the woods, but the man kept going, this time doggedly fleeing instead of pursuing his enemies.

Minutes passed before some of the soldiers found a way to block the man’s path. One of them sent a burst of automatic gunfire towards the man's feet, and the man had no choice but to stop. The soldiers surrounded the man and aimed their rifles at him. He slumped to the ground, exhausted and breathing hard.

...

A soldier wearing a thick coat and a furry hat was guarding the entrance to the Room. Every soldier in the bunker knows you don't want to be put in the Room. You aren't the same when - if you come back out. The soldier had earphones in his ears playing loud music. Behind the closed door, the man, now a prisoner, cried out as he was struck yet again. Hearing the noise, the soldier took out one of his ear buds and looked round to the door as the prisoner was struck again and groaned. The soldier put his ear bud back in and turned away.

Inside the room, a tall man shouted repeatedly in Serbian at the prisoner, his shirt torn to shreds and abandoned in the corner, his arms chained to opposite walls of the small room, forcing him to stay upright. The man had slumped forward as far as he can, apparently exhausted by the repeated blows and unable to support his own weight. In a dark corner of the room another soldier, well wrapped against the cold and with a furry hat on his head, sat with his feet up on a small table and watched while the torturer paced across the room.

_"You broke in here for a reason,"_ the man said in Serbian, and his back tensed when he got no response, muscles bulging.

He picked up a large metal pipe from a nearby table and walked towards the prisoner again, whose face is hidden by the long straggly hair that fell across it.

_"Just tell us why and you can sleep,"_ the torturer offers. _"Remember sleep?"_

He drew back the pipe over his shoulder and prepared to strike the prisoner, but the man quietly whispered something. The torturer paused, lowering the pipe and leaning forward.

_"What?"_ He reached down and pulled the man's head back by the hair, leaning closer as the prisoner continued to whisper.

The soldier in the corner spoke.  _"Well? What did he say?"_

Straightening up and releasing the prisoner's head, the torturer looked down at the bedraggled man in confusion and disbelief.

_"He said... that I used to work in the navy, where I... where I had an unhappy love affair."_

_"What?"_ The soldier's voice was incredulous, and the torturer grabbed the man's hair again, pulling the prisoner's quickly moving mouth to his ear. The prisoner continued to whisper, and the torturer relayed his words to the other man.

_"That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!"_ He reached down and pulled up the prisoner's head by the hair again. _"And?"_

The prisoner replied briefly and the man released his head.

_"The coffin maker!"_

Once again he bent to the prisoner, lifting his head with a fist in his hair. _"And?"_ he says, his voice desperate for more information. _"And?"_

The prisoner continued whispering, his mouth moving even faster. Then the torturer dropped his head and relayed the words to the soldier.

_"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it!"_ His voice echoed in triumph around the room as he stalked across it, slamming the door open. There was a cry of surprise and a stream of curse words as he hit the guard in the back with the door. _"I_ knew _there was something going on!"_

_"So, my friend,"_ the uniformed soldier said after a moment of silence, standing and strolling towards the prisoner, now slumped in his chains, his back covered in blood and wounds from his beating. _"Now it's just you and me."_ He smiled as he looks down at him. _"You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."_

The soldier grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and pulled his head up a little. Leaning close to the man's ear, he spoke in English instead of Serbian.

"Now listen to me," he whispered. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

He released the prisoner's head and straightened up.

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said.

Under the long hair draped across his face, Sherlock smiled.


	3. The Case of John Watson

Back in Mycroft's ever-pristine office, Sherlock read the front page headline of a newspaper titled "SKELETON MYSTERY". Upon finishing the article, he folded down the newspaper with a loud crinkling - he knew his brother found this annoying - to reveal Mycroft sitting behind his nearly empty desk a short distance away, immaculate suit and tie nothing like the thick Serbian uniform that he had worn only a few days ago. He looked precisely the level of annoyed that Sherlock had desired. He read a thick file, so full of papers that it was a wonder Mycroft held it together. Mycroft paused, laying down the file. “You have been busy, haven't you?” The question was dripping with sarcasm.   

Sherlock tossed the newspaper casually to one side, again to annoy his brother; Mycroft would have to pick it up later, as he allowed no one into his office while he was not present. He glared at Mycroft. Sherlock was reclined flat on his back in a barber's chair while a man was shaving the ragged stubble from his face with a straight razor, dangerously close to creating the next crime for Scotland Yard to attempt to solve. Sherlock's hair was cut back to its normal length, but it was wet and straight, his appearance strange without his signature curls framing it.   

“ _Quite_  the busy little bee,” Mycroft continued with a chuckle.  

“Moriarty's network,” Sherlock said lazily, somehow managing to simply emanate sarcasm at the same time. “It took me two years to dismantle it.”  

“And you're confident you have?” Mycroft attempted to hide his surprise, but gave up when Sherlock smirked. There was no hiding his few emotions from his little brother.  

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.” Sherlock’s voice was confident and arrogant as ever.  

“Yes. You got yourself in deep there,” Mycroft paused as he checked his file for the right name, “with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”  

“Colossal.” It was nearly impossible to tell if he was still being sarcastic or was now serious.   

“Anyway, you're safe now,” Mycroft said, almost reassuringly. The big brother habit never seemed to fade, popping up in every conversation.   

Sherlock hummed doubtfully. He was never safe; he had enemies everywhere.  

“A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss,” Mycroft sighed.   

“What for?”  

“For wading in.” At that, Sherlock raised a hand, signaling for the man still bent over him to stop. The man stepped back a bit. “In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu,” Mycroft finished.   

Grunting at the pains in his sides, bruised muscles complaining, Sherlock stood and glared venomously at his older brother. If looks could kill, Mycroft would be pushing up the pitiful daisies planted outside his office.   

“‘Wading in’?” Sherlock’s voice took on a deep, violent quality, bringing a dragon to mind. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.”  

Mycroft frowned indignantly. “I got you out.”   

Sherlock tilted his head like a bird of prey. “No,” he growled, “ _I_  got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?”  

“Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?” He was obviously making up excuses. “It would have ruined everything.”  

“You were enjoying it.”  

“Nonsense,” Mycroft scoffed.  

Sherlock nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Definitely enjoying it.”  

“Listen,” Mycroft said, leaning forward. “Do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover,' smuggling my way into their ranks like that?” He grimaced. “The noise; the  _people_.” At the last word, he sat back in his seat, his face a mask of disgust.  

Groaning softly, Sherlock painfully sank back to lie down in the chair again. The barber dutifully resumed his work. After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke. “I didn't know you spoke Serbian.”  

“I didn't,” Mycroft said, “but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours,” he said with a shrug.  

“Hmm.” Sherlock smirked. “You're slipping.”  

“Middle age, brother mine.” Mycroft’s smile was tight, forced. “Comes to us all.”  

The office door opened then, ending the sibling’s traditional banter. Anthea held a familiar dark suit and white shirt on a hanger, clear and pristine, just like everything else in the office. Sherlock took the outfit from her, and, walking into a connected bathroom, began humming a tune.    

When he came out, Sherlock's hair was dried and curly again. He tucked his shirt into his trousers as he walked to a large mirror on the wall and looked at himself. Mycroft and Anthea stood nearby, watching.   

“I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Is that quite clear?”  

Pretending to ignore him, Sherlock said, “What do you think of this shirt?”  

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was already exasperated, but Sherlock spoke before Mycroft could properly reprimand him.   

“I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft.” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, before crossing the room to look out the floor to ceiling windows that lit the place with the usual grey light of the city. “Just put me back in London,” he continued. “I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.”  

Anthea, not allowing Sherlock to be distracted, said, “One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.”  

Sherlock slipped on his suit jacket, shrugging his shoulders to make it settle onto his thin frame. His inquiries continued.  “And what about John Watson?”  

Anthea threw an exasperated glance at Mycroft, signaling that there was nothing more she could do to attempt to keep him on track. Mycroft sighed and gave his brother what he wanted.   

“John?”  

“Mhm.” Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Have you seen him?”  

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft responded sarcastically. “We meet up every Friday for fish and chips!” He gestured to Anthea, who obediently handed Sherlock a folder. Sherlock eagerly flipped it open as Mycroft continued.   

“I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course,” he said as he adopted the pompous big-brother expression that Sherlock knew so well; chin up, eyes flicking down to the file and then smugly back up to Sherlock’s hopeful expression.   

But Sherlock had his eyes glued to the file, not even glancing at his older brother. He stared at the two black and white photos of John tucked in the file next to the printed report.   

Mycroft said something, but it took Sherlock a moment to register it. “You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?”  

“No,” Sherlock said distractedly.   

He examined one picture of John.  _He has a mustache now,_ he thought. Out loud, he only said “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”   

“We?” Mycroft startled at the interruption of his precious silence.   

“He looks ancient,” Sherlock said, as if the point was obvious. “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” He closed the file and plopped it onto the desk with an air of finality.   

Sherlock smiled and straightened his jacket, circling his shoulders to make it settle. “I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!” Sherlock was all smiles in his certainty.   

Mycroft only offered him a cynical smile. “You think so?”  

Sherlock began to frown, thrown off by his brother’s reaction, but still enthusiastic, even though he would never admit to this rush of emotions he was feeling. “Hmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street.” His voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Who knows - jump out of a cake!”  

Mycroft’s face softened for a moment. He frowned as he said, “Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.”  

Sherlock stopped in his tracks on his way out the door. Mycroft only continued, either unaware or uncaring of his younger brother’s distress.   

“Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”  

Sherlock spun on his heel, putting on a smile. “What life? I’ve been away.”  

Mycroft looked like he was trying to figure out how to roll his eyes without actually moving them, and making very good progress.   

Sherlock shrugged. “Where’s he going to be tonight?”  

“How should I know?”  

Sherlock gave his brother an exasperated look. “You always know.”  

Mycroft sighed and gave in. “He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion… though I prefer the 2001,” he finished smugly, as if Sherlock cared, or didn’t already know which wines he ordered at some stupid restaurant.   

“I think maybe I’ll just… drop by.”  

“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”  

That stopped Sherlock again. “No it isn’t. Now, where is it?”  

“Where’s what?” Mycroft asked innocently.   

Again came the exasperated look. “You know what.”  

Suddenly Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding the familiar coat. She held it up as Sherlock grinned, sliding his arms into the sleeves like hugging an old friend. Anthea reached up and popped the collar, saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”  

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you…” He turned to look at Mycroft, smirking. “...blud.”  

Mycroft only rolled his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the transposed script writing! Everything from here on out is my own writing, even if it does follow the plot of series 3. Hope you enjoy!


	4. Sherlock's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied. There's a little bit more of the script in here, but I can't put notes in the middle of a chapter, can I? 
> 
> Hope you liked how I twisted this! I'm hoping to put in more of what I thought was going through the characters' minds during the show. Anything I get from the internet, I'll provide links to posts and credit the original thinkers. Have fun!
> 
> Comment what you think so far, so I know where to take this story!

Sherlock strolled down the familiar street, drinking in his home. The windows deep-set in the brick walls, made in varying shades of brown. Different shutters, curtains and blinds blocking the views into the flats. The pavement as grey as everything else in London, sibling stone arches above the different doors, all of it diverse and identical all at the same time. And everything so, so obvious, all the little details telling him everything.    


The woman next door - her cat was ill. The man on the opposite side of the street - he hadn't changed his oil in two years and one of his tyres was flat. _It was a miracle he could still afford the flat,_ Sherlock thought. Or, rather, his ailing wife, who had recently inherited a large sum of money and was currently showing symptoms of being slowly poisoned with... cyanide? No, he'd have to take a closer look to figure out the specifics.

The wind blew softly, flapping Sherlock’s coat about him and providing the desired air of mystery. To him it seemed nothing in the world could possibly go wrong. Mrs Hudson would be delighted to see him. She would welcome him in and he would be home again. It would be as if he had never left, much less made everyone who loved him believe he was dead...

The smell from Speedy’s drifted through the early morning air, their first round of baking done and sitting on the counters to cool before they opened. The freshly chopped lettuce, already headed into the massive fridges that filled the far back wall of the pantry, was scenting the air as well, giving the bread and the street an earthy, healthy odor. 

Sherlock shook his head. Not important, he thought. Focus on the mission.    
  
The door to 221B Baker Street was still a beautiful deep shade of green, but the brass knocker needed a good shine. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he fogged it with a breath and scrubbed vigorously with his sleeve. Only then did he pick up the handle and give it a few good knocks. He waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.    
  
He knew Mrs. Hudson would be awake. She always was at this hour. She liked to get her cleaning done early, so that when her favourite programme came on, she would be able to watch the whole thing.    
  
Sure enough, there was a clatter on the stairs. Even two years later, the sound of her high heels on the carpeted stairs was unmistakable.    


As the door opened he clasped his hands behind his back and looked off down the street, the picture of innocence, as if he had left his key inside. Truth be told, he had lost the key somewhere along the way, as he wore it on a chain round his neck. It had broken somewhere in Chicago, following a lead in the United States.    
  
When the door opened, the shrill scream that echoed from the entrywar rang down Baker Street was heard by everyone, making birds take flight into the early morning air. Sherlock's grin only grew wider.    


 

...

 

Gregory Lestrade had never forgiven himself for his decision to question Sherlock. He never would. It had been two years, and still the guilt crushed down on him, sometimes waking him in the middle of the night, or making him lose his appetite during a meal. It would set in suddenly and control him for the next few hours. All he could think of during those times were his words, written in blood on the pavement outside St. Bart's.    
  
He was a broken man, but his grief was nothing compared to Anderson's. 

Anderson had gone further than guilt; madness had overtaken his mind. After the events at St. Bart's, he had become a recluse, rarely coming into work and avoiding Donovan at all costs. She wasn't particularly interested in speaking to him, either, knowing she was just as responsible.  

Lestrade supposed he did blame the two for St. Bart's, in a way. It certainly wouldn't have happened without them.  

Lestrade was called back to reality as the gust of a passing car nipped at his heels, reminding him of where he was: on his way to meet Anderson. The man had said he had something important to tell the detective inspector, saying it was urgent. 

As Lestrade approached the coffee cart where they were to meet, Anderson stepped out of the crowd. He looked even more bedraggled than the last time Lestrade had seen him; his beard had grown longer and rougher, and so had his hair. Both were almost as grey as Lestrade's own hair. His eyes were wild and frightened as they reflexively searched the crowd around him; Lestrade knew he was looking for Sherlock. In spite of the glaring evidence, Anderson still believed that Sherlock was alive. 

"Afternoon, Anderson," Lestrade called as he moved away from the coffee cart.  

Anderson flinched and stared around, then relaxed a bit when he spotted Lestrade. His face settled into a dopey grin as he jogged over, his old windbreaker unzipped and flapping behind him.  

"Wait 'til you hear this, Detective Inspector-" Anderson said breathlessly, pulling up a few feet away as Lestrade cut him off.  

"Again, Phillip?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, and sighed as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. "Every week, every meeting, it's another theory or explanation. It's getting ridiculous." 

Anderson's face fell, looking remarkably childish, as a deep voice sounded behind Lestrade.  

"Afternoon, boys." 

Anderson's eyes widened until Lestrade was sure they were going to fall out of his head. Lestrade turned around, and almost dropped his coffee. There he was, speak of the devil.  

Sherlock Holmes himself.  


	5. Some Explaining To Do

“I…” Anderson was speechless, and Sherlock smirked at the return of the bumbling idiot he knew so well. “I can’t believe it!” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure you just said you could…” Sherlock trailed off as he glanced at Lestrade, who was staring at him, coffee almost spilling, cigarette dangling from his lips. Sherlock looked him over before grinning. “Those things’ll kill you, Gerald.” 

“Oh, you  _bastard_!” Lestrade handed his coffee to Anderson and pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock patted his back awkwardly, unsure what to do, but kept smiling all the same. It felt good to be back. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Lestrade suddenly pushed him away, looking straight at him. “It’s been  _two years_ , Sherlock!”  

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve been around. Spent a few months in Siberia before Mycroft pulled me out.” 

“So Mycroft knew?” Anderson’s voice was coloured with disbelief. “Who else?” 

“Molly, a few of my homeless network. No one else.” 

Anderson nodded as Lestrade continued to stare at him as if Sherlock was an angel.  _Considering I’ve basically come back from the dead, the idea isn’t too far fetched_ , he thought. He looked to Anderson.  

“So, how many cases have I missed?”  

“Er… just a few. We figured out the majority… John even came in a few months ago when we needed a medical opinion. Figured the whole thing out himself.” Anderson seemed too amazed to get the words out of his mouth properly. Sherlock was in a similar state, surprised that the Yard hadn't just keeled over and died without him.  

“How is he? He stopped blogging after I… left.” Sherlock almost looked ashamed as Lestrade flinched at the word.  

“He, um….” Anderson trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. “We don’t see him often.” 

“He rarely leaves his flat,” Lestrade interjected, his voice low. “When we saw him at the Yard, he looked like a ghost.” He shook his head, thinking back through the months, the phone calls from Mrs. Hudson, the constant worry. 

Sherlock grew paler with each emotion he read off Lestrade’s face. He remained quiet, lips pressed tightly together as Anderson spoke up.  

“I have to get back to the station and tell everyone.” Anderson’s voice was excited. “We’ve got a lead on a new case. Drop by later?” 

Sherlock nodded halfheartedly as he watched Lestrade. He could tell he had something to say. Lestrade watched as Anderson walked off, then spoke softly. 

“Does John know?” 

Those three words carried so much weight, two whole years of pain behind them, so palpable that Sherlock carefully thought over his response.  

“No, but-” 

Lestrade looked so relieved that it threw Sherlock off balance, taking the words from his tongue. Sherlock could say nothing, but stared at Lestrade until he noticed. 

“Don’t… don’t tell him yet. Let me break it to him.” 

“What?” Sherlock scoffed in disbelief. How could this man, after two years, keep him from John? “Why?” 

“Why, Sherlock?” Lestrade stared at him as if the answer was obvious, but Sherlock was clueless. Lestrade grew angry.  

“Because you can’t just invite yourself back into someone’s life like that, that’s why! He’s finally moved on! You showing up again…” He shook his head at Sherlock’s confused expression. “Look, he died inside, a little more every day.” Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but Lestrade cut him off. “And don’t tell me that I couldn’t know what he was thinking, because I could. It was written all over his face. He was and is broken. He wouldn’t leave Baker Street for a week, then wouldn’t go inside it for three.”  

Sherlock sat heavily on a nearby bench, Lestrade standing in front of him. “Calling Mrs. Hudson hurts him, and we can see him from our windows, fighting to stay upright on his way past Scotland Yard every morning. Every day is a burden for him. We all ran back and forth to hospital for the first six months.” Sherlock looked up at him, his entire body a question. 

“Suicide attempts, Sherlock. Because you left him behind.” 

Sherlock slumped, showing the first real emotion Lestrade had ever seen from him. He looked up at Lestrade, suddenly a little boy. Lestrade tried to imagine how John ever got mad at this man. 

“What do I do?”  

Lestrade thought for a moment. “I’ll call him today. Let him know you're coming." 

Sherlock nodded, speaking slowly. "I was already on my way to Baker Street... I guess I'll stop at the morgue, say hello to Molly..." 

Lestrade looked confused. "Baker Street? He isn't there anymore." When Sherlock did a double take, Lestrade explained. "He spent a few months in a psych ward, and then moved out when they let him go. He's down in Brixton now."  

Sherlock nodded slowly. Mycroft had said the same, but Lestrade's confirmation had made it real. His brain was in shock, seeming to function at half the normal speed. In reality, it was probably behaving like a normal human brain for once.  

_How could John have moved on? After what Lestrade said..._  Sherlock thought. Once again, he marveled at the resilience of the human race, the ability to overcome heartbreak. Or maybe it was just the resilience of the incredible human named John Watson.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I had fun writing this chapter! I wrote this speech months ago, hoping to use it in some Tumblr post that would probably never get famous, but hey! Why not use it in my fanfic instead? 
> 
> Hope you cry a little while reading! I sobbed while writing it. 
> 
> Comment what you think so far!


	6. The Pain of Reunion

That night, John was laughing.

Sherlock was nowhere near his thoughts, focused solely on the beautiful woman in front of him. She was older than most of his dates, but then, so was he.

“You should have seen the look on his face! He thought he was going to be fired,” she said, bringing the story to an end.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week,” John said honestly, wiping a tear from his eye. He picked up his wine glass as his date, Mary, leaned forward.

“So, any work horror stories from you? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen?”

John cleared his throat, brushing droplets of wine from his moustache. “Well, I’m a doctor, so I’m not sure we want to discuss it over food.” He pointedly took a bite of his pasta as Mary snorted.

“Please, I’m a nurse! Hit me with your best shot.” She followed John’s example and began eating again, dipping a breadstick in the sauce on the table.

“Well, there was one man who came in-” John started.

Unbeknownst to the couple, a black car had pulled up outside the restaurant. Anthea emerged, walking inside the restaurant. The waiter immediately recognized her and led her to a table near John and Mary. They were too caught up in their stories to notice.

For once, Anthea was alert, phone locked on the table in front of her as several waiters brought her a glass of dark wine and a plate of pasta. She ate slowly, ears trained on the couple behind her.

John and Mary were laughing loudly when a tall man approached their table. John looked up as Mary took a drink of her dwindling wine, and dropped his fork. His eyes were glued to the man’s face, body frozen.

“John?” Mary asked. “What’s wrong?” 

She joined John in staring at the newcomer. They looked up at the man with expressions of confusion and rage.

Sherlock smiled softly, only able to see John. He wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. Growing up, Mycroft had always told him to stick to the basics. So he did.

“Hello, John.”

John stood forcefully, jarring the table and knocking his wine glass over. The few remaining drinks left in the glass spread over the white tablecloth like a bloodstain. Mary quietly slipped her knife from the table and into her lap. Sherlock spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. _It’s fair if they want to use it on me,_ he thought.

“ _You._ ” John’s voice was only a whisper, but it echoed in Sherlock’s ears like a gunshot. He didn’t even notice John beginning to lunge for his throat until an umbrella barred his way.

“Now, now, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said slowly. “We _are_ in public.”

Anthea stepped away from her table towards the group, pressing a button on her phone that would automatically pay for the meal. John fumed as he realized he was outnumbered, and his grip loosened on the umbrella still across his chest.

“To the car, boys,” Anthea said, pressing more buttons on her phone. In a few clicks, the car was prepped, the GPS set, John and Mary’s meal paid for, and Mrs. Hudson told to make tea for her guests. “You know the drill.”

John stormed out of the restaurant, followed by Sherlock and then - less eagerly - by Mycroft as Anthea took John’s seat at the table across from Mary. Sherlock overheard a few of her words before they left the quiet restaurant.

“Miss Morstan - may I call you Mary? - this is a matter of national security. You are to speak to no one about who you saw tonight...”

**…**

The car ride to Baker Street was silent and tense, waves of rage coming off of John Watson’s small frame. He was shaking slightly, and Sherlock’s fingers trembled in sync. Sherlock kept his hands folded in his lap, concealing his nerves.

John and Sherlock sat on one seat in the back of the limo, Mycroft across from them, hands folded over the top of his umbrella.

Sherlock dared to speak. “How are you, John?”

John said nothing, only exhaled, long and loud. Mycroft shot a warning look to his brother, but Sherlock kept going, unable to stop himself.

“What have you been up to? Did you go on many dates?”

John’s fist clenched on his leg. He was close to punching Sherlock.

“Did you miss me?”

The question was quiet enough that it could have passed for a thought not meant to be spoken, but John heard it all the same. He turned toward Sherlock, twisting his legs against the seat, and Mycroft leaned forward, ready to block him again.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, hating that innocent expression on his face. It had been a genuine question, and he hated him for it.

“How could you?” John asked. When Sherlock looked confused, he said it again, this time louder. “You - you _bloody_ bastard, how could you?”

A look of resignation and intense regret crossed Sherlock’s face, and he spoke softly, trying to contain John’s anger. “I know, John, I-”

“I had to bury you. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” He scoffed, voice cracking. “Of course, _you_ don’t. You don’t _feel_ , don’t have to deal with _sentiment_ like the rest of us.” The venom in his words physically struck Sherlock, rocking him back in his seat.

“John-”

“No!” John was shouting now, fists balled and eyes fiery. “I buried enough friends during the war, and then you had to go and _make me do it again!_ ”

This was worse than the emotionless soldier that Sherlock had seen in times of danger. This wasn’t detachment. This was fury.

“John, please, I’m sorry-”

_“I don’t want your apologies!”_

Sherlock snapped. “You act as if I wanted to do this! To leave you behind, I thought for good!”

John was stunned into silence, and Sherlock softened his voice. There was a note of true pain behind his words. “You forget, I died that day. _And every day after!”_

John tucked his head, eyes glistening, and Mycroft stared out the window. The driver stayed focused on the road, and so no one saw the single tear run quickly down Sherlock’s cheek.

The rest of the drive to Baker Street was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another speech I've been planning, inspired by a Tumblr post that of course, as soon as I need it, has disappeared. I'll find it at some point. Hope you enjoy! Comment and leave kudos so I can continue!


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